


Just 'Cause You Feel It, Doesn't Mean It's There

by yuffiehighwind



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, F/M, Mind Control, Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:38:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuffiehighwind/pseuds/yuffiehighwind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the drive to Minneapolis, Murphy sees a new side to Cassandra, and has new feelings that leave him conflicted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just 'Cause You Feel It, Doesn't Mean It's There

**Author's Note:**

> Takes place between S2E3 "Zombie Road" and S2E4 "Batch 47.

It’s become tiresome, being dragged across the country, and now Murphy’s just a bounty to be collected. He’s not a savior, he’s a walking blood bank, not that he wanted the role in the first place. Perhaps now he’s the villain, after killing millions just by walking out a door. _It’s not my fault,_ he tells himself. Every day the world gets crazier.

Now he's in a convoy on the road to Edmonton, even though Edmonton is in the opposite direction and so is California. And they’ve lost people. Mack is dead, and Cassandra’s gone missing with the bandits who took Custer’s car.

To everyone’s surprise, it doesn’t take long to find the Charger by the side of the road, with a vacant, bloody Cassandra standing next to it. Doc and 10k rush to her side, but Murphy calmly waits for her instincts to kick in and shuffle over to hug him tight.

With Cassandra returned to him along with the car, Murphy’s new plan is a simple one.

 

* * *

 

Taking the Charger is shockingly easy, especially with Warren a yard away. She and Custer’s argument serves just enough of a distraction for Murphy to jump in the car and speed off with Cassandra and their new friend “Wrecking Ball.” Murphy would gladly leave the dweeb behind if he didn’t have intel on where to find more Z-weed and a possible cure for the zombie virus. He gladly welcomes an antidote that doesn’t involve dissecting him or continuing the long, no doubt fruitless, journey to California.

But Murphy soon regrets his decision to bring the man along. They aren’t much further than Sundance when his constant chatter starts to wear thin. Bumming some more Z-weed somewhat makes up for it, and Wrecking Ball holds the wheel while Murphy blows pungent smoke into Cassandra’s mouth. It gives the alive-again woman a blissful clarity she loses when sober, her face usually blank, never smiling.

She smiles now, however, like a predator scoping out its prey.

“Why is she looking at me that way?” Wrecking Ball nervously asks. Murphy gives a low chuckle.

“She’s not going to bite.”

“Are you sure about that?”

Cassandra nudges Murphy’s shoulder murmuring, “More,” meaning another hit of Z-weed.

“Can’t, darlin’, I’m watching the road.”

The woman growls in disappointment.

“I could drive!” says Wrecking Ball, hand raised like this is a classroom. Murphy knows why the man is so eager to take the wheel. He’s finally realized he’s been taken by a dangerous criminal, with a creature in the backseat just waiting for him to make a wrong move.

“We’ll drive a couple more hours, then switch,” says Murphy. “Just sit back and don’t antagonize Cassandra.”

“I didn’t do anything. I think…I think she’s hungry.”

“Don’t be silly. Girl just ate.”

Wrecking Ball blanches, looking queasy, and Murphy can’t help smirking at his discomfort.

After crossing the South Dakota border, the three of them drive in relative silence for another hour, Wrecking Ball talking about his life pre-Z, Murphy shutting him down and asking for quiet. He wishes the radio still picked up music - anything other than static - and asks his passenger to look in the glovebox for cassettes. There’s only one.

When the music starts, Wrecking Ball’s face breaks into a dopey grin. He bangs his head, shaking out his bowl-cut hair, pretending to play the drums.

 

_All our times have come_

_Here, but now they’re gone_

_Seasons don’t fear the reaper_

_Nor do the wind, the sun or the rain_

_We can be like they are_

Cassandra, stuck sitting on their stash of water bottles, leans over the front seat to get as close to Murphy as possible.

 

_Come on baby_

_(Don’t fear the reaper)_

_Baby take my hand_

_(Don’t fear the reaper)_

_We’ll be able to fly_

_(Don’t fear the reaper)_

_Baby I’m your man_

It’s when Wrecking Ball starts singing along that Cassandra claws at Murphy’s shoulder and says, “Stop. It.”

Murphy turns off the radio.

“If you’re going to sing along, I’m snapping this tape in half and chucking it out the window.”

“Sorry,” says Wrecking Ball. A glance back at Cassandra makes him even more penitent. “Sorry, sorry! I’ll be quiet.”

With nothing but the wind and roaring engine in his ears, Murphy can focus. Speeding along Interstate 90 with the windows down and the sun behind them, they pass through Rapid City, South Dakota.

 _You just need an organic, legitimate-sounding excuse to leave him by the side of the road,_ Murphy thinks. He finds the perfect spot several miles outside the city, near a sculpture of a blue brontosaurus.

Casually, Murphy says, “I think we’re safely out of Blaster territory, don’t you? We could use a quick break.”

Wrecking Ball is enthusiastic, to say the least. 

“Good idea! I’ve had to pee since we left Wyoming!”

Murphy pulls over and the two men get out, Wrecking Ball dashing into the brush to relieve his bladder. Cassandra remains in the car, but Murphy beckons her to him.

While Wrecking Ball is busy, Murphy whispers, “Cassandra, I need you to…”

He trails off, now fully taking in the sight of her. Cassandra’s white mink coat is stained with blotches of red, and rivulets of blood run down her body, all the way down to her boots. Her mouth and chin are smeared with the flesh of the men she’d bitten earlier, and Murphy wipes at the gore around her lips, then stops. Their next action could be just as messy. 

“We’re going to handle this swiftly and delicately,” he tells her, not that delicate is Cassandra’s strong suit. More loudly, he says, “Hey, Wrecking Ball, can you lend Cassandra your jacket? She’s been wearing this coat for days and it’s not exactly practical for the Apocalypse.”

“Yeah, I was kinda wondering about that,” the man replies, zipping up. “No offense, but she looks—“

Murphy cuts him off. “We do take offense. And it’s a long story.”

The long and short of it is there were no nicer clothes at the store in Cheyenne that complemented his own attire. But fashion doesn’t matter now. You can’t be picky on the road.

_Except when someone has a bowling jacket full of drugs you can steal._

“Hand it over,” says Murphy. At this point in the trip, Wrecking Ball knows better than to question him. The man takes it off and holds it out for Cassandra, but she stares blankly at the garment. Murphy takes it instead.

“Thank you. We really appreciate this.”

Wrecking Ball shrugs one shoulder. “No problem.”

Murphy carefully folds the jacket over his arm and says, “Cassandra?” 

The woman stands straight, awaiting instruction. 

“Kill him.” 

“What? No!”

Cassandra fixes a hungry stare on the stocky man, who backs away in terror. He turns to run, but she’s faster. Cassandra grabs his shoulder to spin him around and face her. A knee to the diaphragm doubles him over, and an uppercut to the jaw sends him sprawling. Cassandra pins the man to the ground, fingers clenched tight around each wrist, and he struggles to get free. If he were a better fighter, he could overpower a human Cassandra’s size. But no matter how much he flails, he can’t shake her off. Cassandra dives for his neck and tears into his throat with her teeth. He screams, and no one is around to hear his cries but an impassive blue dinosaur across the field. 

Murphy watches as Cassandra gnaws at the man’s jugular vein until his blood sprays everywhere her mink coat is still white. 

Wrecking Ball had been generous and kind, and only a little annoying, but this is something Murphy feels needed to be done. He just wishes he’d told Cassandra to swiftly break the man’s neck, not devour his flesh like a… 

But she’s _not_ a zombie. She’s something else altogether, and something about seeing Cassandra in action makes him smile. 

_I made this_. _  
_

Instead of feeling shame for turning his former comrade into a creature from her nightmares, Murphy feels pride. 

It’s intoxicating, this new power he has over the living dead. And this beautiful, alive-again woman does what Murphy commands as well, whether he says it out loud or not. Cassandra would do anything for him, and some things that cross Murphy’s mind scare him more than what she’s done to his enemies. 

Or his friends. _That’s enough_ , Murphy thinks, and just like that, Cassandra stands back to watch Wrecking Ball bleed out and turn. The dead man opens two orange eyes, his mouth slackening to drool oozing black bile. Because he doesn’t crave their brains, he merely shuffles to his feet and stares at them. Wrecking Ball’s expression is vacant, like any other zombie’s, but his gaze is still unnerving. Guilt kicks in. 

Murphy thought it would be more merciful than just leaving the man by the side of the road, but mercy would have been a bullet to the head, not being eaten alive by a blood-soaked woman in fur. 

A woman whose ferocity has just given him the sickest of hard-ons. It doesn’t help that she still looks ravenous and her hungry gaze has shifted to him. There’s something almost erotic about her bloodlust, and Cassandra stalks over to be close to him again, to rub her body up against him. 

Murphy turns them away from Wrecking Ball’s accusatory stare. Cassandra looks up at Murphy with wild eyes, running two bloody palms down his chest. Her hands slowly move south to his belt. Murphy doesn’t even need to voice the thought. He can pretend Cassandra really wants to… 

“Whoa, there, darlin’,” he says, taking her hands and dragging them up to a safer part of his body. Murphy doesn’t push her away entirely, though. Some part of her does crave the affection, and to be honest, so does he. 

“Let’s go,” Murphy says, opening the door for Cassandra before returning to the driver’s seat. “Next stop we make, we’ll clean you up.” 

Back on the highway, the zombified Wrecking Ball grows smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror until he fades from sight.

 

* * *

 

The car is thick with the tangy smell of iron, Cassandra’s skin and clothing still coated in fresh and dried blood, but Murphy figures Warren’s not far behind, and they need to make good time if they want to reach Minneapolis first. They finally stop at a Quality Inn in Oacoma, a town on the Missouri River with a name that’s fun to say and only a minor population of Z’s. The Shell across the street is drained of gas and the Arby’s long out of food, but Murphy and Cassandra still have Custer’s stockpile of water in the car. A search of the trunk yields two canisters of gasoline, a lantern, and a few packs of MREs. 

“Oh, Custer. You stupid, crazy bastard.” 

Murphy grabs the supplies and tells Cassandra to take all the bottles she can carry. After watching her struggle, he tells her four jugs, and she follows him inside the abandoned lobby. Murphy taps a bell on the counter and pretends to be insulted when no one comes. He chuckles, but Cassandra doesn’t get the joke. She stares at him blankly while he looks for a clean room. 

“Room service,” he says, knocking. Another joke that doesn’t land, but it’s okay, because the darkened room has a queen-sized bed and he hasn’t slept on one in years. “After you,” he tells her, and Cassandra sets the water on the floor with a thump. Murphy checks the bathroom for Z’s but finds it empty. He shuts the door and deadbolts it, putting up the little chain lock. 

“Don’t want any unexpected visitors,” he explains, and there’s no denying at this point that he’s just talking to himself, but finds it comforting to have another living thing listening. He thinks it’d be funny to put up the “Do Not Disturb” sign, but with no one to scoff at his jokes, it feels pointless. He misses Warren. 

_But who needs her, right?  
_

It has taken so much effort to get Warren off his back and out of his life, that missing her must be a sign _he’s_ the stupid crazy one.

 

* * *

 

Murphy would love to lie down and sleep, but Cassandra smells like death, and the whole reason for this detour is to bathe her. If Cassandra still had the same self-awareness and this place still had running water, he could just tell her to take a shower. But the blood is caking her skin and the easiest way to get it all off is dump a bucket of water over her head. There’s just one problem. The idea of a nude Cassandra makes him uncomfortable.

Back in Cheyenne it had been easy to tell her, “Go take this off and put this on,” but this requires a more hands-on approach. 

Jacket discarded, lantern lit, and water jugs lined up by the door, it’s time to make Cassandra presentable for their visit to Minneapolis. 

“Sit up on the sink.” 

Cassandra does as she is told unquestioningly, and Murphy wipes the bigger smears of blood off her face and neck with a dry wash cloth. The hotel seems to have been abandoned but not ransacked. There are still unused towels on a shelf. 

“We’ve got plenty of water,” Murphy says, “so we can spare some for this.” 

He moistens the cloth and the blood comes off more easily. Gradually, her face is more bare skin than dried gore, and he smiles at her. Mimicking him, Cassandra smiles back. 

“Now for the awkward part,” Murphy mumbles, stepping back and taking a breath. “Stand up.” 

Cassandra hops off the counter and looks up at him with other-worldly, gold-flecked eyes, 5’2” and a whole head shorter than him. She has taken down zombies and men alike with both weapons and teeth, and yet seems so small and vulnerable now. It’s more than awkward asking this of her. It’s indecent. 

“Take off your clothes.” 

Cassandra is about to lift up her gold crop top when Murphy quickly adds, “Starting with your shoes!” 

Her boots are white laced knee-highs, which gives Murphy some time to wash his own face in the mirror. He kind of likes the silver tint. Murphy feels like his humanity has been shedding right along with his skin, and that’s fine by him. It’s a shame there isn’t much he can do about his brown rotting teeth, though. 

Cassandra has unlaced her boots, but is having trouble removing them. She grunts with frustration. 

“Here, let me help.” 

She sits on the toilet while Murphy kneels in front of her, yanking off one boot, then the other. Cassandra wiggles her toes and Murphy laughs in spite of himself. But when she spreads her legs, he glances away and clears his throat. 

“The rest you can, uh, do yourself.” 

He stands and her gaze follows him. 

“While you’re doing that, I’ll just…be over here. But not in a creepy way.” 

Murphy knows he doesn’t need to add that last part, but still feels like he should. 

“I’ll get the water ready.” 

There isn’t much to prepare. The plan is to pour some water over her, then quickly wrap her in a towel. He selects the largest one. It’s so big it will dwarf the petite woman. 

Murphy tries not to look, but there she is in the mirror. Cassandra is slender and fit, long black hair cascading down her tan back, and even her shoulder blades are a distraction. 

When he finally glances behind him, Cassandra’s panties are all that remain. And it’s not the sight of her breasts that leave him breathless, it’s that last remaining piece of fabric pooling around Cassandra’s feet. It’s the way she carries herself with no embarrassment or shame, patiently waiting for his next instruction. He has to be extra careful not to think the wrong thing. 

Apparently he can’t help it, because Cassandra reaches for his belt.

“No!” Murphy says before she can touch him, and Cassandra’s brow furrows in confusion. “Just…get in the tub. I’m going to pour this over you. Should be warm from the car, but still a bit of a shock.” 

She complies, and as the water washes over her, Cassandra sputters and rubs her face. 

“Sorry, darlin’.” 

It’s then Murphy notices a nasty, vertical gash on her right lower back. Murphy sets the water jug down and gently turns her to get a better look. It must be from her fight with the bandits, and he’s stunned he didn’t notice it earlier. The zombie virus has clearly done something to suppress the bleeding and pain. Cassandra hasn’t complained about it even once. 

Murphy can’t just leave her back torn open like this, so he wets another wash cloth and gets to work cleaning the wound. 

“Does it hurt?” 

Cassandra shakes her head. 

“Well I certainly hope not, ‘cause this doesn’t look too good.” 

She’ll need a bandage to travel in that fits beneath the jacket. The only materials available are pillow cases, and Murphy doesn’t have anything to cut them with. He could probably rip them, but… 

One step at a time. Murphy decides to finish Cassandra’s bath first. He pours out a second jug of water, just to be thorough, then wraps her in the big towel and guides her over to the mirror.

“Look, Cassandra. You can see your pretty face, now.” 

The woman rubs her eyes with the edge of the towel and looks closely at her reflection. Their eyes meet in the mirror and she smiles. Murphy tucks some wet strands of hair behind her ears and she tilts her head, leaning into his touch. It’s nice, and alarm bells don’t go off until she turns around to face him. He’s suddenly aware how very close she is, and that there’s just a thin layer of fabric separating him from a whole lotta Cassandra. This could be said of any article of clothing, but the danger of this garment falling off worries him. 

This image flashes through his mind for the briefest second and she drops the towel. 

“Oh, boy,” he breathes. Murphy doesn’t believe in God, but he silently prays for forgiveness anyway. _For the record, I didn’t ask for this._

“Murphy.” Cassandra’s eyes plead for him to touch her, and Murphy can’t tell if it’s really her who wants this, or his own desires manifested. She wraps her arms around his neck, nude body pressed against him. Her embrace tightens and so do his pants. 

“Cassandra.” 

_Put on your clothes and go to bed.  
_

_You just gotta say it, man.  
_

_Super easy to say.  
_

Murphy looks at where her clothes lay in a bloody pile on the floor. They still need to be washed, but this is something Cassandra can do herself, as soon as he can pry her off of him. She either isn’t aware what effect her body has on him or doesn’t care. 

“You got any idea what this does to me, Cass?” 

Cassandra reads his mind again, or he pushes his thoughts into hers, and she hops up on the counter. She spreads her legs so he can stand between them, and Murphy has to try very, very hard to pause and take a breath, not just tear open his trousers and fuck her right there on the sink. 

What he does do isn’t much better. Murphy makes no effort to walk away. He does the opposite, gripping Cassandra’s hips to grind their pelvises together. Cassandra responds to his slow thrusts with her own and he groans, sliding one callous palm up Cassandra’s side. He cups the back of her neck and pulls her to him until their mouths nearly touch, then tilts her head to press feverish kisses to her throat. He grazes her neck with his teeth and wonders what would happen if he bit her again. 

While he’s kissing her, Cassandra’s hand is wandering south to cup his groin. She squeezes lightly and he groans, burying his face in her damp hair while she massages his erection. 

It would be so, _so_ easy to undress just enough for her slim fingers to wrap around him and give him release. It wouldn’t harm her and it wouldn’t mean anything. It would be just like… 

_Just like doing it myself._

Murphy freezes, and pushes Cassandra’s hand away. 

“What the fuck am I doing?” he asks desperately. More loudly with each repetition, he says, “This is wrong, this is wrong, _this is wrong.”_

Murphy tries to step away, but Cassandra wraps her legs around him, growling, _“Want. More.”_

“You only think you do!” Murphy snaps.“You would never be with a guy like me. You’d be with someone nice, like 10k.” _  
_

Murphy wrenches himself from Cassandra’s grip. 

“You _loathed_ men like me. You’d kill me, if you knew better.” 

He picks up the towel and wraps it around her. 

“I’m so sorry, Cassandra. I don’t know what got into me.” 

She looks disappointed, even heartbroken. Murphy knows this is just a side-effect of the mind control. Cassandra thinks she’s supposed to do everything he wants. A simple apology won’t cut it. 

“Cassandra, that cannot happen again.” As if it hadn’t been his own perverted thoughts compelling her to touch him, Murphy clarifies, “I order you not to do _that_ with me again.” 

Cassandra blinks, confused, then the new command takes over. 

“Won’t do _that_ again.”

Murphy nods, repeating, “We won’t do that again.”

 

* * *

 

They wash her shorts, top, gloves, and stockings in the sink, rinsing her white boots off in the tub. The gash in Cassandra’s side still needs bandaging, so Murphy tears fabric from a pillow case. He’s faced with a nude Cassandra one more time, but focuses his attention on the wound. It’s not healing, but it’s also not getting worse. There are many things about the zombie virus that don’t make sense, but if it means Cassandra won’t succumb to another infection, it’s all good for now. 

There’s a robe in the closet Cassandra can wear until her clothes dry, and she curls up in bed while Murphy has his own improvised shower. She appears to be sleeping when he returns, and he sits down beside her with a heavy sigh. She’s lovely when she sleeps, and if he hadn’t crossed the line earlier, he’d caress her wet hair. 

Cassandra surprises him by lazily opening her eyes and asking, “Z-weed?”

“Um, yeah.” She wants to know if they have any left. Murphy gets Wrecking Ball’s jacket and searches the pocket for his lighter and last remaining joint.

“You remember how to smoke a joint?” 

There’s something intimate and sexy about shotgunning with her, but after what happened in the bathroom, Murphy is wary of trying it again. He sits against the headboard and takes a hit. How much of today has he spent high, while running for his life? It does take the edge off a little. 

“Here,” he says, holding the joint out to her. But Cassandra sits up so their faces are level and leans forward. 

“Uh-uh,” says Murphy. “No shotgunning.” 

“Z-weed,” she repeats. 

Murphy rolls his eyes and groans. 

“You’re killin’ me, Cassandra.” 

“Won’t do _that._ ” 

The statement puzzles him until he remembers what she’s referring to. 

“Right, ‘that!’ We won’t do _‘that.’”_

Cassandra nods. “Won’t do that.” 

“Gotcha,” says Murphy. “Thanks for reminding me.” 

He chuckles and takes another hit. He doesn’t inhale this one, and Cassandra leans in with her eyes closed and mouth open. Murphy blows the smoke through her lips and the girl takes a deep breath. Cassandra looks blissful, and when she opens her eyes, a little bit of the old Cassandra shines through. He hopes she doesn’t remember what happened earlier. 

“That’s good shit,” she says, not for the first time today. 

“Tomorrow we’re gonna meet the growers of this fine product,” Murphy says. “And there will be plenty more of this.” He holds out the joint. “You well enough to hold this yourself, or…?”

But this might be the last opportunity he ever has to kiss the girl. 

To be fair, it doesn’t count. 

“C’mere.” 

This time Murphy seals their lips together as he blows the smoke into her lungs. They separate so she can exhale, and the high has them both so relaxed it will make it much easier to sleep. Murphy lies down with Cassandra cuddled against him. He wakes the next day spooning her and hopes they haven’t slept too long. Warren and the rest are still after him, along with every bounty hunter in the country. Not to mention all the zombies, not that any have bothered them since leaving the Blasters behind. 

Murphy shakes her awake and they gather their things. It’s still 5 hours to Minneapolis, and Warren has probably beaten them there already. 

Cassandra sits quietly beside him and gazes out the window, the stoic companion Murphy didn’t know he needed. But now he also knows the truth. He’s done wrong by Cassandra, trying to save her by turning her. She’s alive, at least, but what counts as alive? She isn’t Cassandra anymore, she’s someone entirely different. He misses the old Cassandra. The one who survived zombies and abuse and was stronger for it. One of the strongest people he’d ever met. 

“Let’s blow this popsicle stand,” Murphy says, speeding across the Missouri River, away from Blasters and bounty hunters and towards a cure. 

He presses “play” on the radio, and the tape picks up where it left off. 

_And she ran to him, then they started to fly_

_They looked backward and said goodbye_

_She had become like they are_

_She had taken his hand_

_Come on baby, don't fear the reaper_

**Author's Note:**

> Title is a lyric from the song "There There" by Radiohead. 
> 
> Lyrics in the story are from "(Don't Fear) The Reaper" by Blue Oyster Cult.


End file.
